The lamplight spilled like honey across the curve of her spine as his hands, knowing and deliberate, began their work on the tension coiled deep within her shoulders. A low, appreciative hum vibrated in his chest, a sound she felt more than heard as her skin warmed beneath his touch. Each kneading press of his palms melted another layer of resistance, her muscles yielding like soft wax under his patient, persistent attention. Her breath hitched, then escaped in a long, shuddering sigh that fogged the cool leather beneath her cheek, the scent of sandalwood oil and her own rising arousal thickening the air between them. His fingers traced the delicate architecture of her ribs, a slow, exploratory descent that made her arch tinctively into the contact, a silent plea for more. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the slick heat of skin on skin and the building pressure low in her belly. A single, deft stroke lower still sent a jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure arcing through her, her gasp swallowed by the intimate quiet of the room. Every nerve ending felt alive, singing with an electric current that traced the paths his hands had mapped across her body. She was utterly present, suspended in the exquisite tension of the moment, a vessel filling with a radiant, liquid heat that promised a shattering release.
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